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Cities and Thrones and Powers,
Stand in Time`s eye,
Almost as long as flowers,
Which daily die;
But, as new buds put forth
To glad new men,
Out of the spent and unconsidered Earth
The Cities rise again.
This season`s Daffodil,
She never hears,
What change, what chance, what chill,
Cut down last year`s:
But with bold countenance,
And knowledge small,
Esteems her seven days` continuance,
To be perpetual.
So Time that is o`er-kind,
To all that be,
Ordains us e`en as blind,
As bold as she:
That in our very death,
And burial sure,
Shadow to shadow, well-persuaded, saith,
`See how our works endure!`
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